


The Logistics of Distance and Touch

by FriendshipCastle



Series: Spookums Radio Anthology [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, M/M, Sleepy Cuddles, T for depression-thinking and anxiety and swears, Tenderness, cabintimes, lots of awkward, very gay pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24740212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendshipCastle/pseuds/FriendshipCastle
Summary: Another take on cabintimes. I've loved all the ones I've read and want to put one out there. Shyness, embarrassment, attempts at communication, getting kinda settled into someone else's space, and two very touch-starved people.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Spookums Radio Anthology [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772725
Comments: 12
Kudos: 204





	1. Chapter 1

“I have… not had a great deal of. Control,” Jon said, in fits and starts. “Over being touched. Since I became Head Archivist. And the Archive. But holding hands is good.”

“What?” Martin said, hand still on the doorknob of the safehouse that Basira’s directions and Martin’s dying phone had led them too. Jon was, in fact, holding Martin’s other hand. Martin had been forced to unlock and open most doors one-handed for the past 15 hours. Jon would hold on to him with either hand, which could be a bit unnerving. The texture of his burned hand was a strange and slick, but Martin was mostly terrified of holding too hard and hearing a little ‘ah’ or hiss of pain from Jon, as he had so many times over the years.

“I’m just letting you know,” Jon said. He kept his eyes fixed on their joined hands. “Being touched is. A bit fraught.” He laughed a couple hollow chuckles that sounded like they ached coming out of him.

Martin’s heart broke a bit. They’d been on trains, the Tube, more trains, a car Jon Knew how to steal, and finally a lorry that gave them a ride to the muddy, two-mile lane that wound its way to this front door. And now they had arrived. In all that time, Martin realized he hadn’t really hugged Jon, and now he wanted to so much it hurt. 

He tugged Jon after him into the battered croft cottage, dropped his duffle just inside the door, and said, “I mean, I can relate? Um. To the touch-being-fraught thing. It’s been a while since I, uh. It sounds weird, but being in the Lonely felt really… disconnected. Like, I was the most real thing there, but that also meant that everything and everyone around me… wasn’t.”

Jon was waiting for him to say more, one hand gripping a strap of his battered, teenage-scarred rucksack. He looked patient and neutral. It’s how he had always looked when he took statements from people, a blank but attentive expression that invited more information. 

Martin found his mouth opening involuntarily and he asked, “Do you want a hug, Jon?”

Jon blinked, expression shifting to confusion. “Now? Not really, I don't think.”

“Ah,” Martin said. He’d misread something. He’d heard the tape where Basira and Melanie were talking about Jon’s preferences, but now he entertained the thought that Jon didn’t like _any_ human contact beyond what was, essentially, a handshake. “I, I can respect that. That’s fine.” He smiled reassuringly.

Jon gave him a look that was somehow exasperated and fond at the same time, which was an accomplishment of his wonderful eyebrows and eyelashes and mouth. Martin wanted to applaud it, but Jon said, “You may have a hug, Martin.”

“You just said…?”

Jon kicked the front door closed with one dirty trainer, which made Martin wince. There was a muddy smear there now. Martin was still looking at the mark on the door when Jon walked up and sort of… smashed himself against Martin.

Martin was large. He was tall and wide, a thick layer of fat over muscle. He thought he would weigh twice as much as Jon, and Jon was more than half a head shorter. Nonetheless, the force of Jon smacking into him made him stagger back a pace. Jon was denser than he looked (in all senses of the word, really). Martin felt like dough that an aggressive cookie cutter was being forced into.

Tentatively, he wrapped an arm around Jon. That was better. It felt more active, like he was involved and not just someone Jon was leaning on. 

Jon continued to lean on him, though. He wasn’t holding on with his arms, but his weight was something solid, pressing against Martin. Into Martin’s shoulder, he mumbled, “This is quite nice, actually.”

That was heartening. Martin wrapped his other arm around Jon. He took the liberty of pressing his palm to the back of Jon’s neck, feeling the faint grease of the other man’s skin. They both needed a shower. Jon smelled faintly of the sea—probably the Lonely clinging to him, or it could have been sweat—but mostly like old paper, cigarettes, and a hint of vanilla. It was a dry, salty smell with that unexpected sweetness at the end, and it made Martin’s throat run dry to have it so close to him. 

He felt Jon relax slightly under his hand and realized he was rubbing small circles against the space between Jon’s shoulder blades. He rested his cheek against Jon’s beanie and closed his eyes.

After a while, Martin felt Jon’s shoulders shift uncomfortably and he let go. It wasn’t until Jon stepped back and looked up at him with a little head tilt of curiosity that Martin realized he was smiling at Jon. It was a small, tender smile, and Martin quickly wiped a hand over his mouth to hide it.

Jon grabbed his wrist, tugging Martin’s hand away from his face. “Uh.”

“Oh! Yes? Sorry?”

There was a wrinkle between Jon’s lovely, expressive eyebrows. This was a very familiar sight, but it seemed to be part of a worried expression rather than an angry or annoyed one. “Martin?”

“Yes, Jon?”

“That was an excellent hug.”

Martin beamed. He was still smiling as Jon turned to survey the space.

The cabin was nice. It was also extremely bare-bones. There were piles of cheap paperbacks but no bookshelves, a kitchen with a single pot and pan, and a couple chipped plates, and mismatched cutlery. There were no glasses—apparently, Daisy thought mugs were all that one needed. There were no bowls either. 

“I think she thinks mugs are the only kind of worthwhile utensil,” Martin said.

Jon was smiling. “Is she wrong?”

“Oh my god, Jon, do _not_ take her side!”

“I’ve eaten cereal out of a mug before—”

“Don’t tell me! I don’t want to hear this blasphemy from you!”

“—and they’re quite good for holding wine. Or soup.”

“Why did I have a crush on you?” Martin groaned. His stomach still jumped as he said it, though he knew he’d said much more embarrassing things to Jon already, and Jon also already knew how Martin felt about him (or maybe even Knew, Martin wasn’t sure).

“Presumably because you didn’t know my heretical views on flatware,” Jon said. “Is this a deal-breaker?”

Martin laughed nervously. “I—I mean, we ran away together? And we’re hiding in a murder cabin?”

“I doubt Daisy committed murders in this cabin,” Jon said. He sounded so amused, and he kept _smiling_. It was very hard for Martin to look at him. His smile was a little crooked, and the deep lines around his mouth were offset by the dimple that appeared low on his jaw. 

“We should check,” Martin said, a little breathless. He cleared his throat quickly and fast-walked to one of the doors in the far wall. When he opened it, he had the immediate urge to slam it again, but that would have been extremely suspicious. “Oh. Well, not—”

“Does that blanket have a wolf on it?” Jon said. “Dear lord, Daisy. Where do they even make those? It looks straight out of the aughts. Is that a king bed or did she—no, just two doubles together.”

“Ah,” Martin said.

Jon looked at him, eyes narrowing. Martin felt very seen. Jon asked, “Martin, do you want to share a bed?”

“Hnn, uh, ha!” Martin’s voice ran from a grunt of surprise so deep it shocked him, all the way to a high-pitched crack of laughter that made him immediately blush. “I don’t know! There’s a couch!”

“We could also separate the mattresses,” Jon added. He looked a bit concerned now. “I could put one on the floor. I like a firm sleeping surface, as you saw in my flat. The bed frame is a bit of an issue, you’d be sleeping on an island, but that’s no—”

“It’s fine,” Martin said, face burning. “I just, I don’t want to make you, uh. You said you had some touching issues? I’m… I’m kind of grabby in my sleep. And I snore. And kick. And it’s been a while since I, I, I shared a bed with anyone, so I’m even worse because I’m not used to having someone in the bed with me, but I can’t control how much I move when I’m asleep, so I’d feel bad if—”

“Martin?” Jon sounded cautious and his scarred hand was half-lifted, as if he wanted to pat Martin’s shoulder or put a finger to Martin’s lips to get him to calm down.

Martin gulped down his ramblings. “Uh.”

“We can give it a try?”

Martin nodded. “S-sure. But I won’t be offended if you don’t want to! I can take the couch—”

“You should _not_ ,” Jon said firmly. “I can remove myself if necessary. Now, where’s the bathroom?”

“There, uh, there was another door.”

“I want to check if the water is working.”

The water wasn’t working. Jon looked at the completely silent tap for a moment, leaned on the basin, and sighed. Martin braced himself against the door frame because he knew what was coming; he’d seen Jon do this for the car they’d stolen once they’d left the Scottish train station.

Jon breathed in. The world… blurred a bit. There was a sound like tape fuzz and a feeling of tickling pressure on the back of Martin’s neck. The hair on his arms was standing straight up when Jon hummed a pleased “Hm!” and straightened up. The whine and sensation left. Martin’s mouth was weirdly flooded with saliva, as if he were hungry or nauseous. Then Jon brushed past him, patting Martin’s chest absently a few times as he dodged out of the bathroom. It was a glancing touch but Martin nearly gasped at the casual contact. He stared after Jon as the man left the house. 

Martin slowly moved back into the front room. He bent and dug in his bag for snacks. He found himself rubbing a hand over his chest, still feeling those small, affectionate pats as if they were echoing inside him, reverberating again and again through his bones. He pictured the contact like a golden glow that pinged around frantically. It warmed him.

There was muted muttering and clanking outside. At one point, Jon returned and went straight to a kitchen drawer, pulling out a tool Martin didn’t recognize. He moved with confidence, though—he’d Known what he needed to do and what item would be required. 

Martin had finished a granola bar and was starting on some dried cranberries when Jon re-entered, sweatshirt sleeves rolled up and a satisfied smile on his face. He rushed to the kitchen and turned on the faucet with a flourish. 

There was some ominous clunking and rattling. Jon took a single step back but watched with intent anticipation. Finally, a trickle of brown water began to flow from the tap, steadily increasing in pressure and clarity.

“Oh,” Martin said, impressed. “Well done, Jon!”

“And we didn’t even have to use your phone’s data,” Jon said happily. “Excellent. I think that’s the first time I’ve successfully fixed a household problem. I suppose being tied to a horrifying fear entity has some perks after all!”

Martin laughed at that, hiding his mouthful of cranberries with one hand, and Jon came to steal a few, and Martin forgot about the single bed for long stretches of time as they fought to make the house habitable. They cleaned up the dust with a pair of Jon’s socks and a twiggy broom, checked the unplugged fridge and found it empty except for some preserves and condiments and a massive jar of pickles. The nearest village was a mile away and they hiked out for supplies, including candles—there was a generator, but Jon made an indifferent noise about it and said, “We can charge your phone at a coffee shop. I’ll figure it out tomorrow so we can get the fridge working, but the oven’s gas. We don’t need it tonight.”

“T-true, I suppose,” Martin said. The thought of a house lit by candles was so romantic, he felt slightly dizzy, but he also felt ridiculous about it, too. He wasn’t the sort of person who experienced candle-lit cabin getaways with the object of his affections. It felt a bit like he was watching a dream play out. There were plenty of nightmarish parts in the dream, too, of course. They just seemed far away. Walking down a country lane towards a tiny Scottish village, with Jon smoking and holding Martin's hand right up until the grocery store and then, oh, _in_ the grocery store… This felt surreal but in a nice way.

Jon swore he could cook dinner, Martin admitted he loved making breakfast, and they split up to collect meal supplies that didn’t need to be refrigerated. The middle-aged woman who rang them up barely looked at them, even when Jon leaned against Martin while he waited for his change. Martin carried most of the bags on the way back. It was getting dark. He hadn’t slept in… he couldn’t figure the hours he’d spent in the Lonely, but he’d definitely been awake for over 30 hours by the time they finished consuming cheese toasts and tomato soup for dinner. 

“Do you want to shower first, Martin?” Jon asked him.

Martin looked up from where he’d been staring into a little candle flame, one of the many scattered in the middle of the cramped card table with three mismatched chairs jammed around the sides. Jon had his head propped up and he was looking directly into Martin’s eyes from three feet away, which was a bit much. His scarred hand lay on the table like an invitation. Martin shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose, an excuse to look away, and said, “Ah, right, sure. Thanks.”

“There are towels in the linen closet, second shelf,” Jon said. “The soap and shampoo are in there as well—I put toiletries away.”

“R-really? Thanks, Jon. I’ll be quick.”

“Yes,” Jon agreed. “You will. I don’t think the water heater works without electricity.”

“…Shit.”

Jon smirked. “Have a nice shower, Martin.”

A cold shower felt awful. Martin did the bare minimum, wished he took up less space as he dodged icy spray, and bundled himself into sweats and an old sleep shirt as quickly as possible. Jon took longer in the bathroom. Martin was under three blankets and already halfway to unconsciousness despite his nerves when he heard the bedroom door open. His heart leapt and he cracked an eye.

There were a few candles on the floor, lighting the way past their dumped bags and the stack of books Jon had already accumulated on one side of the bed. Martin had assumed that was Jon’s chosen side, and had elected to keep himself tucked on the other mattress, facing the door. The bed was too small for him, but if he pulled up his knees and went a bit fetal, it would be fine. The blankets were cozy and the house creaked gently under a rising wind.

Martin watched the blurry, dark shape of Jon move closer, pausing to blow out each candle on the way. It was a fastidious movement, bending close to the candle’s level and huffing out a little breath. He got a hand on the bed-frame before he snuffed the last one, but still thwacked his shin on the mattress and grumbled. Martin snorted a little but didn’t turn, leaving his back like a polite wall between them. The blankets rustled, resettled. Resettled again. Jon sighed deeply.

It was quiet.

Martin felt sleep dragging him under and couldn’t find the strength to react when he felt Jon shifting closer. From the darkness, he heard Jon whisper, “Martin?”

It took a massive effort to make a questioning hum. He was met with silence. He fell asleep before Jon said anything, if Jon had anything at all to say to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Jon said ‘straight out of the aughts,’ he’s talking about the 2000s. I have also heard an Irishman refer to the 2000s as the ‘naughties’ (for the ‘naughts’ that are the two zeros defining that decade), but I lost my shit then and I’d lose my shit now if I wrote someone as buttoned-up as the Archivist saying such a thing.
> 
> As I suspected, British bed sizes are different than American. They don’t have a queen bed size—the equivalent dimensions are called ‘king,’ and an American king bed is a ‘super king’ in the UK. However, when I lived in Ireland, they’d have two double mattresses and either just shove them together or put a huge fitted sheet over the two of them at once and that was your two-person mattress. I went with that option because those beds were goddamn TINY but I also think Daisy wouldn’t want to wrestle with one huge mattress for a safehouse in the middle of nowhere. Only one bedframe, though, so there’s that for trope bingo.
> 
> Jon went and started up the water system for the cottage, which is a thing I googled and then realized he could do better as a human-ish google. I also cheated and didn’t show how it works because it’s pretty involved, asks for a nearby water source that I didn’t want to consider, and might be totally different for an old Scottish cabin.


	2. Chapter 2

Martin woke up spread-eagled, overheated, trouserless, and alone. One leg of his sweatpants was still tangled around an ankle, but he’d apparently kicked his pajama bottoms off in the night. He stared at the slant of sun on the ceiling and experienced a wave of horror. 

He’d kicked Jon out of bed. He’d also taken his own clothes off while sleeping because, as cold as he’d been when he got into bed, he knew he ran hot in his sleep. He should have planned that better. Things were going to be very awkward with Jon (Jon had to still be here, there was nowhere else to go—and wasn’t that comforting, that they were trapped with each other). He was going to be sleeping alone for the rest of this trip. Probably forever. Martin was subconsciously clingy and it rose up in the night like a compulsion and he’d ruined his bed partner’s rest. And he took his clothes off when he got too warm in the night. It was pathetic and it was rude. 

“Tea?” Jon asked as he sat down next to Martin, close enough to lean against the bare expanse where Martin’s hoodie had ridden up to expose his stomach. He smelled like a morning cigarette.

Martin yelped and dragged at the hem of his sweatshirt, tucking his belly away.

Jon immediately stood back up, clutching the proffered mug of tea close to his chest. He looked painfully embarrassed. “I’m—I’m so sorry, I didn’t think—”

Martin struggled to sit up and drag blankets over his bare legs. “What? No, _I’m_ sorry, I kicked you out of bed and, look, I run a bit hot at night—”

“—it’s probably very disorienting, waking up in an unfamiliar place—”

“—I didn’t mean anything by, uh, taking clothes off, and did you have to actually sleep on that couch? I’m so sorry!”

“—and then I just barged in, I didn’t mean to— Do you want me to, um. Stop leaning on you and all that?”

Martin froze. “What?”

Jon scraped his hand through some impressive bedhead. He held out the tea mug. “Here.”

After a moment of silence, Martin fumbled down on the floor by the bed for his glasses, shoved them on his nose, and took the mug. “Thanks. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Ah. Good morning.”

“…’Morning.” 

“May I sit?”

Martin tucked his knees up. “Sure?”

Jon sat and clasped his hands between his knees. He had put on the same jeans as yesterday, despite the muddy hems—he’d rolled them, probably to protect them from tracking dirt around the house. He was wearing some of the thickest socks Martin had ever seen. Though it was missing the visible collar and tie beneath it, the sweater Jon was wearing was familiar. He’d worn it to work during the colder months.

“I know I expressed some concerns about physical aff— ah, physical contact yesterday, but I neglected to ask if you had any concerns about your own personal space,” Jon was saying. “I am not known for my observational skills or, really, my sensitivity, but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

Martin listened as he dragged over one of the blankets (they’d all ended up heaped on Jon’s side) and, one-handed, worked to tuck it around Jon. It was the wolf blanket, worn threadbare and velvety. The folds distorted the wolf’s face dramatically. All that was really recognizable was the yellow eye, printed larger than Martin’s hand, spreading over his feet as it trailed away from Jon.

Jon paused to pull the blanket more securely over his shoulders and give Martin a sharp, puzzled look.

“You’re cold,” Martin said, reasonably. He tried his tea. It wasn’t bad.

“…Yes. Thank you. Um.”

Martin waited, but Jon seemed to have derailed. He kept petting the blanket.

“ _Did_ you sleep on the couch?” Martin asked eventually. His voice came out very small.

“Mm? No. And I didn’t really sleep,” Jon said. “Just dreamed.”

“That’s… really creepy.”

“Oh? I suppose you’re right, I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing!” They both jumped at Martin’s intensity. Martin settled his glasses more firmly on his nose. “Look, I’m concerned I did something weird and embarrassing in my sleep and I feel bad about that and I don’t really get what you’re trying to ask me.”

“Ah.” Jon clasped his hands between his knees again. “Hm. I guess I’ve just noticed that you are… worried about initiating contact with me? And I appreciate the respect for my space, but. Well.”

“Jon, do you want a cuddle?” Martin said, disbelieving.

Jon glared at him. “I want some verification that I’m not being overly affectionate, as I seem to be the only one of us interested in physical touch.”

Martin’s grin died. “Oh.” He flashed back to the past two days. Jon had basically held on to him at every opportunity while Martin did his best to sweat less from his palms. “…Oh.”

“Could I ask—well, ah, not Ask, but just… would you tell me if this is some holdover from the Lonely?”

“Probably,” Martin admitted, still in the midst of flashbacks. He fumbled for the tea mug and sipped at it, just to have something to do with his hands and an excuse to not speak for a moment. “Um. It’s been… It’s actually be a really long time since I was, well, touched. Not just by someone I was, you know, dating, or hooking up with, but like. Friendly pats or hugs or anything.”

“Yes,” Jon said. “I can… relate to that, somewhat.”

“I think I’m out of practice,” Martin said, with a laugh that sounded like a hiccup. He took another quick swallow of tea.

“Martin, would _you_ like a cuddle?” Jon said gently, and Martin did tear up at that, mostly because Jon saying ‘cuddle’ sounded so strange and lovely and unexpected. It was not a word he’d ever thought about Jon saying. He sniffled.

Jon looked extremely alarmed. “Okay, no, that might be too much right now. Um. Do you want some eggs? I’m going to—I, I can start that.” He stood up and walked towards the door, turned and walked back, then stopped and just looked at Martin, hands twisting against each other in uncertainty. 

“Yeah,” Martin choked out. He hunched over his tea to hide his face.

He could tell when Jon reached out to him. He could feel the shift in the air. It really was like the Lonely still clung to him, making him hyperaware of wherever anyone else was in a room. Once, he probably could have known where people were within a ten block radius. He could have known the exact distance between him and someone else in the building. Not the Institute—the Eye was in charge of tracking movement in _there_ —but any cafe he was in, the apartment building he’d visited between work binges, every takeway shop he’d frequented. That and vanishing were what he’d had. Briefly, he wondered if he could still disappear, or if he’d given that up when he left the Lonely with Jon.

Jon’s hand landed on his shoulder blade, dislodging Martin’s train of speculation. There were a couple uncomfortable pats. Jon switched to rubbing. Martin breathed in, trying to calm down.

“Do you want to supervise me making eggs?” Jon asked.

“Yeah,” Martin said. “I do. But I need to put trousers on first.”

“You do remember I’ve seen you in your pants before?”

Martin uncurled to scowl at him for that. “I try to forget you saw me in pants in the workplace, Jon, but thanks.”

Jon’s mouth twitched into a small smile before his eyes skipped away. Slowly, he said, “You don’t have to put trousers on if you don’t want to. Since it’s just us.”

“You want to watch me make eggs in my pants?”

“I certainly wouldn’t _object_.”

“I— Oh. Okay.” Martin fought a grin. This was one of the weirder interpersonal negotiations he’d had. “They’re boxers.”

“Yes, Martin, I know.”

“I hope scrambled is okay.”

“Sounds perfect,” Jon said. As Martin got out of bed and stuffed his feet in socks because wow, the floors were cold without carpet, he kept watching. It was a little awkward, but when Martin shuffled the legs of his boxers to cover more of his thighs and Jon hummed thoughtfully from the doorway, it felt less like being watched and more like being seen. Maybe even appreciated.

__________________

Breakfast was quiet. Martin blushed often during the process, heat surging back to his face every time the chilly air and the sensation of his bare legs brushing against each other reminded him he wasn’t in trousers. He hadn’t spent the morning in his underwear in… years. He’d never done mundane tasks in pants while someone else watched. Despite the fact that Jon stayed a respectful distance away the entire time and grilled toast on a spare burner, it felt like a huge step beyond hand-holding. 

“So, we _are_ dating?” Martin said over the dregs of the meal.

Jon looked over, eyebrows raised in a graceful arch of disbelief. “Yes, Martin.”

“Just wanted to check,” Martin said, wiping at his mouth self-consciously because he could tell he was blushing harder.

Jon went back to staring out the window in silence. He sipped his tea. His bedhead had softened and settled, grey threads shining in the weak and cloudy Scottish morning light. 

“Um,” Martin said.

Jon turned to look at him again. The beginnings of a beard were already growing across his cheeks and chin. Martin remembered stubbly Jon from the Institute, mornings when it was clear he’d slept in his office or neglected a shave in favor of rushing in early. He already had more grey in his beard than he had last year. It was coming in in little patches around his mouth and at the edges of his face, where his hair blended with his jaw.

Martin opened and closed his mouth. “Sorry. Nothing.”

Jon blinked at him. “Is everything all right?” The fine muscles around his eyes quivered. There was a rush of static.

“Yes!” Martin said quickly. The light shining through the window made it clear when Jon’s pupils dilated briefly, like a camera lens adjusting. Martin found himself saying, “You can grow a beard fast and it looks really nice on you. The grey is hot. I like your lips.” Martin dug his teeth into his bottom lip and closed his eyes. “Please don’t do that.”

“That was— I’m sorry, Martin.” Jon sounded disturbed. “I wasn’t thinking. I’ll… I can be more careful. My apologies.”

“You get so fancy when you feel bad,” Martin told the table. “You sound like you went to Oxford.”

“I did go—”

“ _Yes_ , Jon, I read your hoodie, I _know_ you went to Oxford. But you don’t always _sound_ like you did. Mostly when you feel guilty. Or nervous. Or trapped. Or out of your depth. See, I can know things, too, because I pay attention.”

“Yes, you do pay attention.”

“It’s really uncomfortable,” Martin said, “that you can Know stuff about me or, or compel me to tell you.”

There was silence for a long moment. “Do you want a question in return?”

Martin’s eyes snapped open. “You mean you’d answer if I asked?”

“It seems only fair.”

Martin squinted at him. As the silence stretched and Martin contemplated his question, Jon began to look increasingly concerned. Martin finally said, “Do you have a thing for my legs?”

“M-martin!” 

“Do you?” Martin asked around a smile.

“They’re good legs,” Jon said defensively. He looked like he was about to say more, bit his lip, then sighed and said, “In the interest of full disclosure, as I made you do, I suppose I have more of a ‘thing’ for your, um, face.”

“My face?”

“It’s an excellent face,” Jon said. “Very expressive. I missed seeing you smile so much. They were mostly nervous smiles, though. You’re much less nervous now and your smiles are… Well, the number of them dropped off, but when you do smile, it means you’re happy. And I love that.”

Martin sat and watched him. It was quiet in the house, a sort of comfortable stillness. The sunlight had faded already. The smell of breakfast was dissipating. A draft was taking it away. The cabin creaked a bit, settling. Somewhere outside, a few birds sang, and one let out a gravelly shriek. Jon was looking back. It was very tender.

At the same time that Jon said, “So, ah, what do you want to do today?” Martin asked, “Could we— I’d really like to kiss you, if that’s all right.”

“O-oh,” Jon said, sounding surprised. He said, “Oh” again, pleased this time. “Certainly. I mean, yes, that would be nice. Should I...? I can come over there.” He scooted the chair back with a screech of wood—they both winced— and took a half-step, bracing himself on the table as he loomed over Martin for a moment. His scarred hand tilted Martin’s chin up, and then he brushed their lips together.

It was very quiet and very soft. It didn’t last long, but it was a lovely press of mouths. It felt kind, and a little reverent. Martin opened his eyes a crack and realized Jon had never shut his.

Jon pulled back, smiling crookedly. “All right?”

Martin let out the breath he’d been holding. “Yeah. Good.” The inside of his mouth felt warm in a way he hadn’t noticed. Had it felt cold until just now? If he’d run off to somewhere warm and tropical instead of Scotland, would his breath have made clouds of fog when he breathed before this moment? “ _Very_ good.”

“Quite good,” Jon agreed. “Should we keep doing that, or go for a walk and see the terrain a bit?”

Martin stared at him. “Three more and then walking around?”

Jon’s smile grew. “I suppose that’s no great hardship, but don’t feel you have to limit yourself to three kisses.” He bent over Martin again, pausing a few inches away. “What defines the end of one kiss as opposed to blending them together? Is it intensity? Lip separation? Do—”

Martin surged the rest of the way to kiss him and get him to stop analyzing make-out depth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like Martin, I have removed clothes in my sleep when too hot. This has barely ever happened with friends.
> 
> I’ve seen _True Detective: Season 1_ and Jon not sleeping, only dreaming, comes from Matthew McConaughey's line delivery of a similar sentiment.


	3. Chapter 3

After a day of wandering the backroads of Scotland and then figuring out how to start a generator so they could have power, Martin climbed into bed without sweats on, in just his pants and T-shirt.

“Highly inappropriate,” Jon said.

Martin gave him the finger. Jon laughed at that, a proper peal of delight, and flicked the light switch. He still barked his shins on the mattress when he got into bed and grumbled while Martin giggled.

They lay on their backs, close to touching but not quite. The seam between the mattresses was the barrier between them.

“Did I move a lot last night?” Martin asked, because it was still eating at him.

“No,” Jon said. “Well, yes, but you didn’t kick or anything. Just sort of… splayed out. Took up most of the mattress. You did grab at my face and that was the point where I had to sit up and get some reading done.”

“Shit,” Martin said. “I’m sorry.”

“You were asleep, Martin. It wasn’t your fault. I finished an absolutely terrible crime novel. You kept my legs warm. It was a good night.”

“Do you want to spoon,” Martin said, hoping that if he said it fast enough, his brain wouldn’t catch up.

There was a violent rustle from Jon’s side of the bed and his mattress squeaked. It was dark in the little back bedroom, but Martin could feel Jon’s gaze on him. Martin kept his eyes turned toward the ceiling, staring at the squiggles of color that ran across his vision because there was nothing for his eyes to latch on to.

“Uh. You don’t have to initiate physical touch if you don’t want to, Martin. I just wanted to confirm that you—”

“I do. Want to have physical contact. God, Jon, why did you have to phrase it that way? It’s so clinical. I’d like to snuggle. It’s fine if you don’t want to but I would like that, I think. I’m less tired than last night, so I think I can actually, you know, appreciate we’re sharing a bed here.”

“Ah,” Jon said. “Yes, you did seem… rather out of it, as the day wore on.”

“I can’t sleep on trains. Or cars. Especially ones we stole.”

“ _I_ stole that one; you were a terrible lookout.”

“Stealing is wrong!”

“So is getting tracked by an all-seeing Eye. It really is the lesser of the evils, if you, well, ignore that it is illegal.”

“Your metric for crime is really bizarre, Jon.”

“I suppose my scale for strangeness, danger, and ends justifying the means has been… well. Deeply affected. You know, I used to think the Magnus Institute was one of the healthiest workplace environments I had ever had.”

“Oh god. I mean, it was the longest I’d ever been employed anywhere, and people yelled at me the least, and even _I_ know that wasn’t a good place to work.”

“Good lord, Martin, what kind of places did you work before the Institute?”

Martin winced, though Jon couldn’t see him. A series of behind-the-counter jobs under fluorescent lights during the darkest part of the night flashed through Martin’s head. He summed it up: “Retail.”

“Oh dear. My deepest condolences. It’s for the best you lied on your CV— Well, perhaps not, what with all the horror and gore and murder and trauma and such. And I’d imagine Elias was a real bastard to you during your interview, all-seeing dickhead that he is.”

“…You know, the way he acted when he hired me makes a lot more sense now. He just wanted to bring someone unqualified on for entertainment, I suppose.”

“You… progressed,” Jon said diplomatically. Martin snorted. “Well, I know he didn’t hire just entertainment purposes. If so, he must have been sorely disappointed.” Jon sounded very satisfied as he said, “When I worked in Research, I was _very_ dull.”

Martin huffed out a laugh at that. “Yes, I remember.”

“You do?”

“Of course. Gilpin, Hannah, and Rosie all had theories about how you spent your time, and their consensus was that you were the most boring man alive.”

“I was!” Jon said, delighted. “Christ, I miss those days. A night in alone, watching documentaries over curry, after a solid ten hours of crosschecking area maps in Wales with a statement’s poor description of a hilly forest. It was perfection.”

Martin hummed noncommittally and closed his eyes. A conversation this rambling seemed to indicate he wouldn’t be spooning Jon any time soon. That was something to process. 

Jon was describing one of the documentaries he’d seen about a sushi chef in Japan. His voice was incredibly soothing, low tones and a slow pattern to his speech. He was being himself, not a statement-giver, and he sounded the way he always had when he shared a new topic that had caught his fancy. Martin couldn’t quite follow what he was talking about now but it seemed to be about overfishing and a decline in both the population and quality of tuna. Martin hummed again, the only part of the conversation he had to keep up. For a moment, his mind drifted. Overfishing tuna to the point of extinction, perhaps. The Extinction…

“Martin?”

“Hm?” Martin said without opening his eyes. He was glad to have that train of thought derailed.

“Are you going to sleep?”

“Mm. Keep talking, ’s nice.”

“Ah. Very well.” A hand scraped at Martin’s shoulder, gripped it, delivered a few pats. Jon coughed. “Good night, Martin.”

Martin reached across his body and gave the hand a few pats of his own. “Night, Jon.” 

__________________

Somewhere in the dark, Martin half-woke. There was little reason for it—maybe a shift in the night, a change in the weather, a sound. His nose tickled, perhaps that was it. 

He opened one eye. The moon had come out and shone through the gap in the curtains over the bedroom’s single window. Martin was face-first in Jon’s hair. He was, in fact, spooning Jon, who was almost completely fetal. Martin’s hand was resting on Jon’s side, nearly in his armpit. He could feel the erratic rise and fall of Jon’s breathing under his shirt. Jon’s inhale shuddered a little, then his breath eased out of him in a steady sigh. The tips of his fingers twitched where they were tucked around his head, as if Jon were guarding his face with his forearms.

Martin watched these small movements for a while. He listened to Jon’s irregular breaths. He felt the heat from Jon’s ribcage under his slightly-sweaty palm. Then he closed his eyes and drifted on the edge of sleep, amazed and relieved that he was here and Jon was safe and this tiny cottage could contain so much peace. He moved his lips slightly, though this meant the ends of Jon’s hair got into his mouth. He just had to say it, even though it was more of a mouthing of the words than a sound: “ _Thank you_.”

__________________

Martin woke up overheated and on his back again. A strip of sunlight on the ceiling wavered and vanished with a snap and rustle. Martin frowned up at it. He could tell Jon was in the room by the pad of feet, and then the creak of the bed. He turned his head. 

Through Martin’s myopic eyes, Jon was a bit smudged around the edges where he sat on the edge of the bed, his back to Martin. He was smoothing down his hair. HIs shoulders were so thin and hunched under the slack fabric of his overlarge shirt.

“Hello,” Martin said. His voice was soft and rough with sleep.

Jon whipped around, fingers caught in a stubborn hair tangle just below his jaw. “Ah! Good morning, Martin.”

Martin snorted at that. Jon sounded exactly like he had when Martin surprised him in the Institute break room at the beginning of the workday. Odd to think that Martin was still unexpected, even when they were the only two people here.

“Do you want to eat?” Jon asked. He’d gotten his hands out of his hair.

“Not right now,” Martin said around a yawn. “Ten more minutes.”

“Yes, that makes sense. It’s before seven. I closed the curtain so you could sleep more.”

“Nah.” Martin tried to focus on the smudge where Jon’s face was. He patted the bed next to him invitingly.

“…Ah. Yes.” 

Martin could feel Jon shift uneasily on the mattress, but he did slide over, hitching his pajama bottoms higher on his hips. Jon pulled a pile of the blankets over himself and burrowed down. Martin blinked at him hazily. “I may fall back asleep, actually. For more than ten minutes. You can go if you want.”

“No,” Jon said, and his voice was very quiet. He was close enough that he was clear in Martin’s glasses-less vision. He had a frown line between his lovely, sharp eyebrows and was looking lower than Martin’s eyes. At his mouth.

“Uh,” Martin said.

Jon’s eyes snapped up. The frown didn’t disappear, but he tucked his chin and scooted forward to rest his cheek on Martin’s chest. Martin had to wrangle one of Jon’s arms free so he could drag his body closer. He also had to spit out some of Jon’s hair, and had a sudden and embarrassing flashback to having too many feelings in the wee hours of the night. He cleared his throat and attempted to recapture the floaty, uncaring but pleased feeling he’d had just a minute ago.

Jon turned his head. His chapped lips pressed into the space where Martin’s neck joined his shoulders.

“Oh,” Martin said.

Jon hummed, and it sounded nervous.

“This does feel kind of scandalous,” Martin admitted.

Jon slid an arm around Martin’s waist and Martin let out a squeak at that because _hello_. Jon had a hand under his shirt and a grip on the soft flesh of his side rolls that wasn’t budging.

“Okay,” Martin said. 

Jon nuzzled into his neck again and Martin decided to let his eyes roll back and relax for this. It felt extremely nice. It was scratchy and intimate, kind of warm, a little humid as Jon breathed into the crook of his neck some more. He was dead weight on Martin’s arm and Martin very carefully reached up and sank his fingers into Jon’s hair.

“This all right?” he asked.

Jon grumbled in a way that was more like a purr as Martin started scraping his ragged, chewed nails against Jon’s scalp.

“I’m going to mess it up again,” Martin promised solemnly. “All your hard hair-work.”

“The horror,” Jon slurred, jaw mashed into Martin and half-open. He may have been drooling.

Time passed. There was very little movement apart from Martin’s hand scratching at Jon’s head.

“I love you,” Jon said.

“Hnnnguh?” Martin grunted, coming out of a doze like he’d been doused in water. “What? Oh! Oh my god. Thank you? Oh, shit.”

Jon was laughing, silent but for the huff of his breath against Martin’s ear. His arm had tightened around Martin’s waist.

“Jon, I love you too?” Martin said. Jon kept laughing and kept his face hidden. Martin tried to twist his neck to get a look into Jon’s eyes but nearly tore something as he craned around. “Jon? Ow. Jon, I said it first, remember?”

“Don’t worry, Martin,” Jon managed between heaves of laughter. “I’ll say it again. It’s not going away.”

“How do you just _say_ things like that?” Martin wailed. He got a hand over his own heart and held on. It was rabbiting away under his palm. He did some deep breathing.

“Are you scared?” Jon said, his voice spooky until he snorted and ruined it. He rolled away a bit and propped his head on his hand, grinning down at Martin but a little more serious when he asked. “Did I scare you?”

“A bit, yeah! I didn’t think— Well, I’ve never heard you say that to _anyone_.”

“Of course not, Martin, we were in a workplace environment.”

“Fuck off with your ‘appropriate workplace behavior’ joke, it’s not funny here! Or applicable.”

“I suppose not.” Jon let the silence build for a moment, corners of his mouth twitching. The dimple Martin was learning to treasure deepened just before Jon added, “But I love you.”

Martin could feel himself glaring and his eyes watering. His mouth was shaking and he bit his lips to try and hide it but Jon was, apparently, obsessed with looking at his mouth, and Jon’s smile faded.

“Are you all right?”

“ _No_ ,” Martin said. Had to say; Jon’s question had a tinge of static to it. “It’s really nice to hear and I really, really don’t trust it.”

“Oh shit, Martin, I’m sorry.” Now Jon looked hurt and worried. “You don’t trust me?”

“That’s— No, I do trust you, I just— The words? I didn’t hear them much. You know, when I was a kid and stuff. Or an adult, really. I think… I think our coworkers said it to me more than anyone else. You know. Hannah and Sasha and all them. They were usually drunk, probably teasing me, but. Still.”

“‘The words,’ hm?” Jon said softly. “And people say I’m bad at articulating my feelings.”

“Love,” Martin said, and he could feel how he bit into the word like it was something that had been forced into his mouth. 

Jon laid his hand on Martin’s cheek and Martin flinched.

“Sorry,” Martin said immediately. “I mean, that— You can touch me. It’s fine.”

Jon didn’t take his hand away. “It is fine, Martin,” he agreed. He ran his thumb under the thin skin beneath Martin’s eye. “It’s fine. And I’ll keep saying it, until you believe it even when I don’t keep saying it. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yeah. Me either,” Martin said. He dredged up a smile. “Stuck, eh?”

“I can promise you, there’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

“…Yeah. Me either.” Martin breathed deep, despite Jon still half-sprawled on his chest. “This feels a bit surreal, you know? Don’t think I ever expected to end up… well. Anywhere close to waking up in bed with you.”

“No, Martin. It’s been quite a long time and I didn’t expect this either. But I’m… I’m glad to be here with you.”

“Oh! Um, likewise? I mean, this is… Yeah.” And then, because he could, Martin said, “I love you. So. Breakfast?”

Jon’s eyes crinkled around his smile, crow’s feet fanning back to where his beard was coming in even thicker this morning. “Sounds perfect. We have a big day of doing whatever the hell we want to do in a Scottish murderhouse; may as well sieze the day.”

“Er. Could we…?”

There was time for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hic and I watched some episodes of _Nadiya’s Time to Eat_ a few weeks ago on Netflix Party and we fell in love with the fish farmer Gilpin and so his name is here. I make Institute OCs now.
> 
> When Martin’s drifting off, Jon is describing _Jiro Dreams of Sushi_ , which is a good movie. I like documentaries, I am not ashamed.
> 
> I had the end image planned aka I had a note at the end of this fic that I was working towards the entire time and the note was: “THAT BIT FROM THE MUSIC VIDEO FOR ‘HIDE’ WHERE THERE IS SHOULDER NUZZLES WHILE SHIRTLESS. MAKE THAT.” While that was a very sweet part of the Rainbow Kitten Surprise music video, it didn’t… totally fit. But I got as close as I could with my interpretation of characters.
> 
> I could keep going but I have other fic for this fandom to write. Gonna be one bummer piece immediately post-160 and then I have hopefully gotten all the tender touching out of my system for this fandom? We’ll see. Writing all the cuddles I can’t have right now is quite nice.


End file.
